“Dr. Collins,” interrupted Captain Wilkins. “Mr. Merryweather wants to talk to you.”
“Thank you, Captain. I’ll take it in my office. Tell me when Rodriguez gets the rock in orbit.”
Mr. Merryweather congratulated me, indicated I would find a substantial bonus in my pay envelope and asked to talk to Smith. Out of range of the phone, I could only see and hear Smith. He nodded, listening intently, said OK several times and hung up.
“Let’s go, buddy boy.”
“Go? Where?”
“To the surface. Horace had a man watching Spieler Space Operations in Tustin. When your pebble bounced out, all hell broke loose.”
Smith started out the door. The phone hummed.
“Just a second,” I said. I touched the phone. Pamela Rysor came on the screen.
“Mr. Parry is on the line.” Parry? I looked at Smith.
“Right on schedule,” said-Smith. “Talk to the man.”
“Put him on, Miss Rysor.” Parry’s plump face came on the screen, smiling pleasantly.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“Nothing at all, Mr. Collins. I’m just calling to complete our little bargain.”
“What bargain?”
“Come, come, Mr. Collins. A man of your abilities must have an excellent memory. We were to have exchanged certain information. I have fulfilled my end of the exchange.”
Either Parry knew nothing about the security recordings kept on all calls to the Merryweather Enterprize, or he didn’t care.
“What do you want to know?”
“As I told you, nothing as specific as the information I furnished you. Tell me, did our lasers prove satisfactory?”
Parry knew the lasers worked well. Spieler’s two ships, still stationed off the Gate, would have reported our success. Smith, evidently thinking the same thing, nodded yes, indicating I should answer Parry.
“They performed satisfactorily.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” He sounded glad. “Was there enough of a safety margin?”
“Safety margin?”
“The load placed on the reactor by the Gate—was it severe?”
Knowing the load, Parry could calculate the Gate’s power consumption. The fact seemed harmless. It would only tell Spieler the grasping power of the Gate during our test, something he probably knew already. It would reveal nothing about the workings of the Gate itself. Just because you know that Boulder Dam produces so many kilowatt-hours of electricity, doesn’t mean you know how. A salesman, furnishing lasers for a reactor, would probably ask the question. I looked at Smith. He shrugged, leaving the decision to me.
“No, the load was not severe,” I said.
“Excellent. I’m glad our product performed well. What, exactly, was the load?”
I looked worried. Parry tried to seem reassuring.
“Dr. Collins, our technical people would like to check their calculations.”
I still looked doubtful.
“Come, come, Dr. Collins. We had a bargain.”
I told him. He looked satisfied.
“Not bad at all. Plenty of room to spare. Thank you for your time, Dr. Collins.” He hung up.
Smith raised his eyebrows, bewildered.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
Smith pondered, staring at the floor and pulling on the cigar in his mouth. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know! You’re the one who’s supposed to know! The answer man! I thought Parry was supposed to blackmail me or something! That’s what you said when you were one step ahead of them.”
“Maybe I was wrong.”
“This is a hell of a time to be wrong!”
Smith began pacing my office, chewing on his dead cigar and working it from side to side in his mouth. “Was there anything funny about the lasers you got from Fenton?”
“Funny?”
“Anything wrong with them?”
“If you’re thinking of sabotage, forget it. They were perfect. I had our best engineer in charge—”
“You?”
“No, Bernie Mitchel. He went over them with a fine-toothed comb. They were perfect. In fact, they were better than perfect. Installed in the reactor, they could produce more power than we needed.”
Smith halted, withdrawing the cigar from his mouth. “Better than perfect?”
“That’s right. So what?”
“More power than you needed?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what Spieler was confirming, that there was surplus power. There’s something to it.”
“What?”
“Damned if I know. Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Tustin.”
Smith parked the Ferrari a block from Spieler Space Operations, out of view behind a slope. We walked the block, Smith strolling, glancing around as if out for his morning constitutional.
“Beautiful day,” said Smith.
I snorted. From Corona del Mar to Tustin, Smith had said nothing, intent on his driving. I tried to coax his plan from him. He remained quiet. I began to suspect he didn’t have a plan.
We reached the crest of the slope. Spieler Space Operations, a cluster of low buildings surrounded by a chain-link fence, spread out below us. I recognized the administration building from Smith’s description. The rest of the buildings looked anonymous.
“Smith.”
“Hm-m-m.”
“What are we supposed to do here?”
“Poke around.”
“How?”
“Beats me. Play it by ear.”
“Play it by ear! If they catch us, they’ll hang us by our ears!”
“I guess we’d better be careful then,” said Smith, coming to a halt. “Ah, here it is. I thought I noticed this the other day.”
Smith’ stepped off the sidewalk and began following a worn dirt path next to the fence. I glanced into the compound. If all hell had broken loose, someone had caught it. The place showed no signs of life. The more I thought, the more anxious I became. Smith clearly intended to get inside. It was broad daylight. Aside from what Spieler might do, there were laws against this sort of thing. I glanced at the open area between the fence and the buildings, imagining myself running across it.
“Smith.”
“Hm-m-m?”
“Can’t we come back tonight?”
“There won’t be anyone here tonight.”
“I know.”
Smith stopped and squatted. “I thought I’d find this.”
“What?”
“A hole. Kids and dogs hate fences.”
I looked at the base of the fence. The wire mesh, buried for most of its length, was stretched over a narrow divot. Only a kid or a dog could get through it.
“You don’t expect me to crawl under there?”
He pointed at the top of the fence. “You could go over.”
“I’m not dressed for this kind of thing.”
“Neither am I. Put your coat on inside out.” He dug in his coat pocket, coming up with a plastic disk. “On the other side, turn your coat right side out and put this on the picket.”
I glanced at the disk, green, inset with my picture. I read the inscription around the picture. Robert Cluggins, Spieler Space Operations, Supervisor.
“Cluggins?”
“Like it?”
“Not much. Where’d you get these?”
“Don’t ask. It might tarnish your image of Horace.”
Smith reversed his coat and put it on, sealing it to the collar. He cleaned out the hole with both hands, removing twigs and dirt.
“Give me a hand here.”
We pulled the bottom of the fence up as high as possible, adding another six inches to the clearance. Smith got down on his back and squirmed under, inching forward like a soldier penetrating barbed-wire.
“Can’t I just hand my coat through, Smith?”
“No. You might get the front of your shirt dirty when you crawl under.”
“They’re dark enough so the dirt won’t show. Besides, who looks at pants?”
I turned my coat inside out and followed, squirming under the fence. The lining ripped on a stray wire. Inside, we brushed each other off and prepared to start for the buildings.
“Smith, this is absolute lunacy.”
“Straighten your cravat.” He pointed at one of the buildings. “That’s their Gate. Where do you suppose everyone is?”
“Waiting in ambush.”
He ignored me. “The building next to the Gate is the one we want.”
“What is it?”
“Their computer center.”
We walked across the open area toward the buildings. I kept glancing around, apprehensive. Smith strolled, enjoying the warm weather.
“Relax, buddy boy.”
I felt like the cavalry going into a box canyon. Indians, behind every rock, watched us, waiting, bows taut. Once trapped, they would pounce. I imagined myself staked spread-eagle on an ant hill, Spieler, a feather protruding from behind his head, laughing, sprinkling sugar on me.
“Smith,” I said when we reached the nearest building. “Where is everyone?”
“Out to lunch?”
“If they let us in, they’re out to lunch all right.”
Smith paused outside the computer center. “Let me do the talking.”
Inside, there was no one for Smith to do the talking to. The corridor stretched out in front of us, empty. We checked several offices. Empty. Our footsteps echoed in the hall. I remembered the Merryweather computer center, busy even on Saturday nights.
“It must be Spieler’s birthday,” said Smith. “Everyone’s at the party.”
“Spieler’s birthday’s in January.”
“That’s a joke, son.”
“Where are they, Smith?”
“You got me.”
We continued down the hall, passing empty rooms. Several of the rooms looked recently occupied, coffee cups on desks, computer displays still lit, processing data. I began to get an eerie feeling. Somehow, everyone in the building had simply vanished.
“Have you ever seen any of those old Japanese pictures?” asked Smith.
“A few. The classics. Kurasawa. That sort of thing.”
“Did you ever see The Crud Eats Again?”
“No.”
“It opened with a scene like this. Empty buildings. Machines running. No people.”
“Where were they?”
“The Crud ate them.”
Ahead of us, a man in a business suit popped from a door, halted, inspected us and disappeared into a room on the opposite side of the hall.
“Crud didn’t get him,” said Smith, picking up his pace. He turned in at the room.
The man looked up from a computer printout, his round face startled.
“Oh!”
Smith scowled. “Why are you still here?” he demanded, his voice authoritative.
“Sorry, Mr., eh—” He glanced at Smith’s identification disk. “Smythe, I’m just finishing up here.”
“Who are you, anyway?”
The man’s eyebrows went up. “Me?”
Smith scowled even more deeply and plucked the identification disk from the man’s suitcoat, reading it.
“Higgins. Astronomer.” Smith grunted, returning the disk. “You’ve got no business in here today, Higgins.”
“I know, sir. But I had to—”
“You had to what?” snapped Smith.
“I had to—”
“Come, come, Higgins. Cluggins and I don’t have all day.”
“Let him talk,” I said.
Smith sneered at me.
“Thank you, Mr. Cluggins,” said Higgins. “I was running a program on these coordinates, sir. They’re all wrong.”
“What coordinates?” asked Smith.
Higgins looked at Smith, dubious. He glanced at Smith’s identification again, then mine. “Green clearance,” said Smith, impatient.
Higgins, anxious, made up his mind. “I have to tell someone. Mr. Spieler simply would not listen. Look at this!”
Higgins ripped four feet of printout paper from the computer’s typewriter, handing it to Smith. Smith glanced down the sheet, uttering noncommittal “Hm’s” and “Ah’s” and trying to look intelligent. He handed the sheet to me.
“Now, Higgins,” said Smith, official, brisk, “What’s all this about?” Higgins, continuing to look at Smith, pointed at the sheet in my hands, his expression distraught. “There! It’s all there!”
I looked at the sheet. Somehow, it seemed familiar. The longer I studied it, the more significance it gained. Dr. Steichen, just prior to testing the Big Gate, had shown me similar coordinates. Steichen’s figures programmed the matter transmitter’s focal point.
“These are drone ship coordinates,” I said, guessing.
Higgins’s expression changed, lighting up. Someone, at least, understood.
“Yes, Mr. Cluggins, exactly. But they’re no good. No good at all. Look at this.” He poked at an equation. “And this.” He jabbed at an expression. “It’s some horrible mistake!”
“Why a mistake?”
“Do you know where that is?”
I looked at the equations. “No.”
“The Crab Nebula, Mr. Cluggins!
“The Crab!”
“The Crab.”
“Itself!”
“So?”
“Sooo?” he mimicked, indignant. “Sooo? What do you think the Crab Nebula is, some sort of seafood?”
“Crab Nebula,” mused Smith. “Sounds good.”
“It’s horrible!” shouted Higgins, snatching the printout from my fingers. He folded it into a neat square.
“Why?” I asked.
“If Mr. Spieler sends a drone ship there”—he jerked his thumb at the ceiling—“it will never return!”
“Most of them don’t.”
“Yes, but why compound the problem by simply throwing away”—he flipped the printout onto a desk—“ships. Money is still, I’m told, money.”
“Why won’t it come back?”
“First of all, a round trip takes eight thousand years!”
“A pretty impressive first of all,’” said Smith. “What’s second?”
“The Crab, Smythe! The Crab!” Momentarily, the Crab blended in my mind with the Crud. Question: what happened to Spieler’s drone ship? Answer: the Crab ate it.
“The Crab will eat it?”
“Yeees!” said Higgins, his tone patronizing. “Now you’ve got it!”
“I do?”
“What Crab?” said Smith. “I think I missed something.”
“The Crab,” I explained, bewildered, “in the Crab Nebula.” Higgins nodded, agreeing with me. Before I wrote Higgins off as a complete maniac, I decided to try for clarification.
“Dr. Higgins, I was unaware there was a real Crab in the Crab Nebula. I—”
“Shows how much you know. All you bureaucrats are alike. Give orders right and left, but when it comes down to knowing something—down to the real—” Higgins’ hand flapped in front of his mouth, trying to coax out the proper word.
“Nitty-gritty,” suggested Smith.
“What does that mean?” inquired Higgins.
“Essence. It’s old slang.” “Essence! That’s it! When it comes to the real essence, you bureaucrats are absolute gritty-nitwits!”
“I don’t think,” said Smith, “the word was used like that, but I rather like it.”
“Ignorant as stones,” concluded Dr. Higgins.
“I was under the impression,” I persevered, since Smith seemed intent on his diction reverie, “that the Crab Nebula was so named because of its appearance.”
“Quite right.”
“Then where does the Crab come in?”
“It doesn’t come in anywhere. It’s been there all along.”
“You’re a difficult man to talk to, Dr. Higgins.”
&
nbsp; He grunted, contemptuous. “The Crab, Cluggins, is a pulsar. I like to think of it as having a crab inside, snapping up any bits of matter that get too close.”
“You do.”
“Yes.”
“And in reality,” I said, my patience exhausted, “what is it?”
“A pulsar. I just told you. M-1, very young. The Japanese and Chinese observed its nova in the mid-Eleventh Century, you know. One day—mark my words—it will become a black hole. One day, everything will become a black hole.”
“But now it’s just the Cr—I mean the pulsar.”
“Correct.”
End of the line. I knew, vaguely, about pulsars, giant blue stars collapsed during a supernova to a few kilometers in diameter—a spinning neutron star. One fact eluded me. Why, all things considered, did Spieler want to send a drone ship to a pulsar? He could have more fun just burning a billion dollars in his backyard. A drone could never land on a neutron star. I asked Dr. Higgins.
“I’m sure I don’t know. I told you, it is some kind of mistake. Holiday or no holiday, I must convince Mr. Spieler.”
“What do you make of it?” asked Smith.
I shrugged.
“Does it concern us?”
“Concern you!” interrupted Higgins. “It is vital to the company! Vital!”
“Who knows?” I answered. “Maybe.”
Higgins snorted something like an imitation of my “maybe” and reached for his printout. I grabbed it off the table.
“We’ll take care of this for you.”
“But—” Higgins looked from Smith to me, his eyes narrowing. “Who are you?”
“Cluggins.”
“Smythe.”
Before either Smith or I could react, Higgins bolted, scurrying to the door and out. Smith hesitated, wondering whether to pursue. Higgins’ footsteps receded. A door slammed.
“Forget him,” I said. “Where’s a phone.”
Smith pointed. I touched on the phone and tapped out the direct number to the Merryweather Enterprize.
“Wilkins,” said Captain Wilkins. “Control-roo—oh, it’s you. People have been trying to get hold of—”
“Give me Dr. Steichen, fast.”
The screen went blank. Captain Wilkins knew enough not to argue with me. I waited.
“Come on, Steichen, come on.”
Steichen’s face came on the screen. I started talking immediately. I told him to listen. When I finished, he could get a playback from the security recording of the call: He looked startled to discover his calls were monitored but had the sense to accept it and listen. The phone did not have a document feed so I had to read the printout. Four pages of English can be read in a few minutes. Four pages of math, especially sight-reading someone else’s math, takes forever.
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